


White Rabbits

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9724424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: He's fond, already so fond of his new friend. He expects that a kiss won't make much of a difference.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first and last pieces of dialogue are taken from Endeavour "Ride". This ficlet is set between the two scenes.
> 
> Many thanks to Chloe and Rose for their encouragement and help.

What remains of the night, Joss Bixby finds, tastes of ashes and blood and expensive whisky. The past has taken a hold of him and for once he doesn't mind that it won't let him be. He's in a trance, still drunk on her lingering presence, yearning for something – anything that will bring the magic back. Magic, the man who calls himself Bixby knows, is often intertwined with the circumstantial. What seems impossible is easily explained by a sleight of hand, a welcome distraction – like that of his unlikely neighbour: Morse, a beautiful enigma that he intends to unravel – not out of callous ambition or cold-hearted boredom. Bixby is curious, intrigued, enamoured of the man. What he feels towards him is unexpected warmth. Morse, he thinks, could be a kindred soul – if only for a few nights. Magic is fleeting, Bixby has learned, and neither he nor Morse, he can tell, have any intention of staying by the lake indefinitely.

They're two rabbits, he fears, hiding in the uncertainty of a stage magician's top hat.

Which is why, when Morse says with absolute certainty:

„Bix, you could have any woman you want“,

Bixby ignores the burn of whisky on his bruised lips and replies: „And any man?“

Morse shrugs, matter-of-factly.

„Probably.” He grimaces, then. “Barring men like Bruce, of course.“

Bixby's smile grows sad, he can't help it. His thoughts stray towards a dance that has ended far too soon.

„Of course”, he says wistfully, and he captures Morse's gaze with his own. What he finds there doesn't surprise him. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. There's a hurt in him, distant but ever-present, and it echoes his own – makes him gentle where it would poison others, grants understanding rather than bitterness.

And Bixby makes up his mind.

“Would you stay, Morse? With me. Tonight.”

Morse seems not quite so forlorn, not quite as uncertain, when he nods, once.

As Bixby quietly leads the way into a bedroom (not his bedroom; he misses her terribly – now more than ever – but just for a few hours he wants to forget about the treasured memories, the sanctity of the past, hanging framed on the wall there) he almost reminds him of her. Perhaps it's the way he's watched them dance – the solace he's found in the drawn out rhythm of their synchronised steps. He's fond, already so fond of his new friend. He expects that a kiss won't make much of a difference.

But when Morse leans into him in the imperfect darkness of the room, Bixby finds that is heart reaches out ever further, until he feels like a drowning man, a starved man, desperately clinging to the first vestiges of a newborn hope.

Morse's lips are surprisingly soft, and his touch is gentle, so Bixby takes the lead, and he's relieved when Morse follows eagerly, traces his cheekbones, digs soft fingertips into the nape of his neck before he undoes the knot of his tie rather expertly. Bixby smiles into the ghost of a lingering kiss until he tastes the coppery sweetness of his own, barely dried blood. Morse doesn't mind. He's preoccupied by where the collar of Bixby's dress shirt meets the rhythm of his pulse. And it's rather maddening, he thinks, all these layers of fabric between them – all pretence, and a constant reminder of who they will never be, not entirely. Never good enough for the likes of Bruce Belborough, and at least for tonight Bixby is tired of pretending. He wants him close, Morse, close enough to forget all about the other side of the lake.

And so he takes down his jacket and slips off his tie, unbuttons his shirt and rids him of his vest. He carefully lays everything out over a nearby chair. Then Bixby starts on his trousers. They're ill-fitting, probably too big on him, but he's mesmerized, spellbound by the rise and fall of his chest. Morse is quiet under his hands. His head held low, his mouth slightly opened as if he's waiting for something, anything, perhaps another kiss? Bixby obliges as he guides him backwards and toward the bed – an opulent, antique thing that complains under their combined weight just as Bixby himself stifles a moan. His own clothes feel tight against his overheated skin. It’s an altogether different kind of heat he seeks, and he wonders how Morse fingers feel against his hips or splayed across his belly, against the curve of his buttocks.

Not much care is invested into undressing himself. He owns plenty of suits and he can't bear the thought of being alone for much longer. When he finally sits up, Morse spread out underneath him, skin against skin in the chill of the darkened room, Bixby smiles. He is again reminded of the first time they met: Bixby, the host turned magician (or will it always be the other way around?); Morse a refreshing change of pace. He wonders, has Morse spent quite as long as he has to perfect the illusion?

„You should wear that mask of yours”, Bixby suggests, and he leans down low until their naked bodies strain against each other.

Morse's own voice is a tantalising hum.

„The one you had sent over?“ And he shakes his head. „I'm not much into masquerades.“

„No, you wouldn't be”, Bixby agrees as he finally shifts his weight, low and then lower until his lips can frame Morse's arousal perfectly. “Would you, old man?“

And he swallows down, gently at first, until an earnest rhythm and the unsteady roll of Morse's hips dictate that he up the pace, employs deft fingers eager to explore. And he can finally, finally feel Morse come undone under his administrations.

Bixby quite likes it, the way Morse all but cries out his name. All of his wit, sharp thoughts and sharper tongue, all reduced to a moment of passion. He eases off then – because Bixby is many things but a tease isn't one of them, and as he kisses his way up Morse's stomach, his chest, the fluttering pulse in his neck, too many hands between them now to make sense of the wave of sensation pooling low in his own belly. Sweat-slick fingers, the wicked flick of a thumb, draw out a rhythm on his sensitive skin. Bixby's moans are caught between Morse's shallow breaths. His muscles tense, his hands knead patterns into Morse thigh, his hips, his arse. He longs for more, perhaps later? Perhaps tomorrow. What's one more night by the lake when there's magic to be had? The very air between them is heavy, sticky, hot. Tangled sheets frame curls the colour of an early autumn sunset, freckled skin that's reddened against his touch. Bixby burrows his face against one bony shoulder. He can't hold it in any longer. He comes almost silently, old habits die hard, cascading shivers – what did the French call it? La petite mort? Morse would certainly know – stealing his breath away. Morse follows suit a little while later, with a little more coaxing; by now Bixby has familiarised himself with his idiosyncrasies: with the way he prefers things to be just a little bit messy, a little raunchy and, above all, sincere. The way he craves his touch, arches his back beautifully, his gaze aimless but soulful, his voice straining against the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.

And so, as Morse's heartbeat grows quieter, slower underneath his touch, Bixby lies still a little while longer, until the sweat on their bodies has cooled and the tangle of their legs becomes uncomfortable.

“On a night like this, a man might believe anything's possible”, Bixby says, later, as they gaze out into the inky blackness of the lake. His destiny – his past and future alike – lies across. Being here with Morse feels like both an ending and a new beginning.

“Good luck”, says Morse.

“You too, old man”, replies Bixby. “You too.”


End file.
